The Price Of Light

There was something different in the wind that morning—sharp, metallic, like the breath of steel before a duel. Richard felt it before he even opened his eyes.

He sat up from the pile of coarse blankets, still damp from last night's rain. The makeshift campfire had long since died out, leaving only curled smoke in the cool air of dawn. Maria was already awake, her figure silhouetted against the rising sun, sharpening her blade with the methodical rhythm of someone trying not to think.

But Richard couldn't escape thought. Not anymore.

The memory of the dream still clawed at him—no, not a dream. A warning. A glimpse. He had seen himself again—bathed in searing light, an army of broken angels behind him, and every friend he'd ever known kneeling before him in chains.

He wasn't sure what frightened him more: the vision of their pain… or the part of him that accepted it.

---

"Morning," Maria said without looking back. "We've got half a day's walk to the ridge. If we're lucky, we'll beat the patrols."

He rubbed his eyes. "You didn't sleep."

"I couldn't."

Neither of them said what they were really thinking: that they had passed the edge of safe lands, that they were now hunted by both man and beast, and that every step brought them closer to something ancient and cruel buried beneath the Capital's golden throne.

"Carly said the Emperor's Men won't cross the Ashridge." Maria tucked the blade into her belt. "They think it's cursed."

"Maybe they're right," Richard muttered.

She raised a brow. "You think curses scare me?"

"No. But they should."

---

The ridge came into view at noon—jagged, black as scorched bone, splitting the valley like a scar. Once, long ago, it had been a holy site. Pilgrims had climbed it to pray for rain, for healing, for salvation. But that was before the Empire built their machines. Before they razed temples in the name of light.

Now, the only things that remained were shattered stones, forgotten graves, and an altar that bled shadows instead of hope.

They climbed in silence.

Halfway up, Richard stopped. A whisper brushed his ear, though the wind had stilled.

> "You remember this place."

He turned sharply. "Did you hear that?"

Maria frowned. "Hear what?"

Richard's heart pounded. The ridge seemed to shift beneath his feet, pulsing like a sleeping beast. Memories that weren't his slithered into his mind—blood rites, screaming crowds, a prince kneeling before a pyre, his eyes hollow with sacrifice.

He stumbled forward, gripping the rock face.

Maria grabbed his arm. "You're shaking. What's happening?"

He looked at her—really looked. Maria had always been the one to pull him back from the brink. Stern, grounded, with a loyalty carved from fire. But right now, her eyes held something he hadn't seen before: fear.

---

At the summit stood a statue, nearly swallowed by moss and time. A woman with no face, her arms outstretched as if begging for mercy—or offering judgment.

Richard stepped closer. The wind howled.

> "You were not born a savior. You were shaped into one."

He fell to his knees. The words weren't just echoes—they were inside him. Etched into his spine. A truth buried so deep, even his blood had forgotten.

Maria knelt beside him, eyes scanning his trembling hands. "You said you weren't chosen. That the light just... found you."

He nodded. "I lied."

---

The truth spilled out, like a cracked dam.

How the light came during the war. How it didn't ask—it took. How the Emperor's priests bound it to his soul using old rites, crowning him a symbol of purity. How every time he used it, a part of his humanity burned away. How the Empire cheered him as he destroyed entire legions—but never told him what happened to the souls of those he annihilated.

How he could still hear them.

"I see their eyes in my dreams," Richard whispered. "They don't hate me. They plead with me. As if I can undo it."

Maria said nothing for a long time.

Finally, she reached into her pack and pulled out a cloth bundle. "Then maybe it's time you stopped carrying the burden alone."

Inside was a crown—broken, rusted, old beyond measure. A circlet made not of gold, but of obsidian glass. He recoiled instinctively.

"This belonged to the last king who defied the Empire," she said. "The one they erased from history."

"Why are you giving it to me?"

"Because before they called him a heretic, he was a healer. He didn't kill with his light. He mended. And they destroyed him for it."

Richard touched the crown.

And in that moment, the wind stopped.

The world blinked.

And the sun pulsed.

---

Something awakened.

Not the burning, blinding power the Empire revered. Not the kind that scorched cities.

But soft light. Old light. A warmth that made his heart tremble.

Maria watched him with wide eyes. "What did you just do?"

"I don't know," Richard said.

But he did.

The crown had accepted him.

And now, for the first time, his light no longer felt like a cage.

---

That night, under the broken stars, Richard swore an oath.

He would no longer be the Empire's blade.

He would no longer burn for their glory.

He would walk the path of the Crownless.

The healer. The heretic. The rebel king of light.

Even if it meant becoming their greatest enemy.

Even if it meant paying the ultimate price.

End of Chapter 12